Torture
by afickleflakes
Summary: Darkness. He can’t move. He can’t breathe. He can’t see. He can’t hear. He who is usually the rescuer, being rescued. He, invincible, rendered useless, vulnerable. Character Torture.
1. Affliction

**Affliction**

Disclaimer: D. Gray - Man isn't mine.

A/N: Okay! So this is going to be one of my last few works. I'm going on a LONGGGGGG hiatus. Final-year examinations coming up. Enjoy!

* * *

His breath is laboured, coming in heavy gasps.

'_What _is_ this…?!'_

A sharp pain attacks his chest. His breath hitches in his throat.

His eyes sting, and a metallic taste erupts in his mouth.

He collapses onto his knees, gripping the bed sheet.

The urge to retch squirms restlessly in his stomach.

That stupid, _stupid_ iron taste…

'_Fuck.'_

The breath he'd held in bursts out of his lungs as he struggles for oxygenated air.

He coughs, choking and spluttering.

He feels liquid rise in his throat.

Dizziness takes him, and he wavers.

He sways, his grip on the bed sheets slipping…

His head hits the ground and he gasps at the sharp pain in his head.

The breath catches in his oesophagus again, and coughs ensue.

The room spins around him.

What the _hell _was going on?!

There is a muffled sound as his vision fades. The stinging sensation in his eyes has intensified to an unbearable level.

His eyes flutter, and the world draws itself into a black mass of shadow.

The taste of metal explodes in his mouth once more.

He spasms, the pain in his chest and stomach forcing his body into pictures of distortion, complicated contorted twists further adding to his agony.

His mouth opens in a futile attempt at gathering air into his lungs.

Thick liquid streams from his mouth instead, his throat burning.

He must have been screaming or something.

People have found him.

And now, footsteps resound around him.

He can't see.

He's going numb.

The voices draw nearer, the footsteps louder.

Frantic, panicky sounds.

He still can't see.

He reaches up to touch his mouth feebly, stumbling over the other sharp features of his face clumsily.

His fingers brush against his lips, sticky, slippery.

There is another noise, like the opening of doors, but he can't be sure; the pain has drawn his attention away from whatever it is.

His lungs are ripping themselves apart, rupturing.

His heart beats painfully against his ribcage, and he feels himself being turned over.

The pain is too much for him now.

He's on _fire_.

And finally, he hears his name, as his eyes open to a blur of blood and worried faces.

* * *

A/N: Okay. Obviously, the one being tortured has not been identified. Truthfully, I wrote it based on one of the characters, but I leave it to you to envision who gets tortured here. ^^ Hope you enjoyed it. Read and Review? ^^


	2. Infliction

_**Infliction**_

A/N: Hello! Astaline here~ Do enjoy. I'll try to get more stuff out soon. :D I haven't edited this or given it a once over, so do fogive any spelling/grammar mistakes.

Disclaimer: I do not own D. Gray-Man, which rightfully belongs to Hoshino Katsura, nor do I own the song below, Hide, by Red.

* * *

_Waste away  
I'm crawling blind  
Hollowed by what I left inside  
For you, just you.  
I'm caught in place,  
But I ignore what I can't erase._

_I will run and hide till memories fade away.  
And I will leave behind a love so strong._

_Close my eyes theses voices say.  
Haunting me, I can't escape.  
For you, just you .  
Time will always wait  
While I throw away what I can't replace._

_I will run and hide till memories fade away.  
And I will leave behind a love so strong._

_I will run and hide till memories fade away.  
And I will leave behind a love so strong._

_  
I will run and hide!  
And I will leave behind!_

_I will run and hide till memories fade away. _

_And I will leave behind a love so strong!_

---

His wrist is decorated with crimson ribbons, tight against his skin.

Ribbons, eh? That's fancy.

Its scent is overwhelming, the feeling making him high.

He turns the blade over in his hand.

One more. Just one more…?

He swipes it again.

Gently, slowly, quietly, the metal gleams over his skin.

Slowly, surely, more red ribbons pour in a trail behind the glistening metal.

He smiles, sad, bitter.

The rest of his arm _burns_, desiring to share the agony of his wrist.

Screaming, begging.

_What_ agony, though?

He can't feel a _thing_.

"_**We aren't allowed to feel. **_You_** aren't allowed to feel. We're Bookmen. And that is our obligation. You should know that by now,-**_"

The breath hitches in his throat.

His smile fades.

That stupid, _stupid_ name.

_His _stupid real name.

Cold beads of sweat run down his forehead, around his neck, his shoulders.

He refuses to remember it. That _dreaded_ shred of the past.

Those people. The terror they caused his naïve, _pathetic_, eight-year-old self.

It comes bubbling to the surface again. The way they chanted his name, the way they called to him.

The way they _lied to him, _gave him_ false dreams_. The way they _betrayed him._

They were pathetic. _Cowardly._

Running away, leaving their helpless son to fend for himself. Left him for dead.

Because they feared death.

Feared only for _themselves_.

It comes in flashes, urgent, terrifying.

Then it disappears.

He looks down.

His hand clutches the blade. His palm, fingers.

It's an _explosion_ of _red_, _ecstasy, adrenaline_.

An all time _high_.

And it has blown away his bleak, seamless thoughts.

It still doesn't hurt though.

His left eye is blank, and empty abyss of green.

His brain is screaming, an unbearable migraine.

But he still can't feel.

His heart is broken, his soul _mutilated_.

His real name echoes in his head continuously, unyielding, in voices he does not want to hear, does not want to recognize.

He strikes his wrist again, further below the wrist now, around the middle area of his forearm.

The memories cease momentarily. The voices quiet.

He is spared the pain, if only a moment.

His breathing is rugged.

But the time runs out. The flood resumes, memories swirling in his head wildly, ruthlessly.

Ah, the disadvantages of a photographic memory.

He grits his teeth.

He slashes again, deep, oozing.

Further down his arm, the slashes go.

Again.

Again.

Again.

Again.

Again.

Again-

"Lavi?"

The voice is soft, on the other side of the door.

Gentle.

Concerned.

It stops him in his tracks.

He can barely hear it over his own rugged breathing.

They knock again.

His breath catches in his throat.

Maybe is he is quiet, they will figure he is asleep.

And go away.

"Lavi, open the door? Please."

Silence.

"I'm going to stand out here until you open up. I know you're in there."

The knocking resumes.

It pauses for a fraction of a second. Just a fraction.

The person on the other side seems to realise something.

"If you're asleep, I'm going to knock until you get up."

Well, someone is stubborn.

He rises from where he is seated at the edge of the bed, moving quietly to the bathroom. He removes his shirt, his short-sleeved shirt, flinging it into the laundry heap to his left.

Reaching into the cabinet above the sink, he pulls out bandages, holding them in his mouth as he washes the ribbons away.

Such a pity. They had been nice ribbons.

He then washes the blade, carefully rinsing the red liquid away. Tightly, he strangles his arm with the white fabric, hoping the river of red will stop flowing.

He pulls a long-sleeved T-shirt from the wardrobe in the corner, sending the newly washed blade tumbling into its depths, mopping the mess on the floor with a cloth under his foot at the same time.

Evidence hastily disposed of.

He tugs the shirt on, and the bandages disappear from sight.

He ruffles his hair, creases areas of his clothing.

He pulls a sleepy face and opens the door, Allen's fist in his face.

"Whoa Allen. You gonna punch my face in?"

He rubs the back of his neck as if it's sore from sleeping on a rough duvet.

Allen withdraws his fist.

He eyes narrow slightly, curious, suspicious.

"What were you doing? I've been standing here knocking for ages."

He measures his words, careful not to answer to quickly or too slowly.

He yawns, putting everything into the act.

He smiles at Allen.

Poor boy can't tell.

Allen's tense shoulders relax a fraction.

"I was sleeping. What's up?"

The white-haired boy's eyes are curious again, accusing. Sort of.

_Accusatory?_

'_But Allen's not like that.'_

"I was just wondering if you're okay. You looked like you had something on your mind yesterday when we got back. So I just came to see if you were alright, in case you needed a friend."

The boy wrings his hands.

Worried, apparently.

He shakes his head, smiling.

"Nah. I'm good. Just needed to catch up on some sleep. Gramps'll be working my ass off around the clock soon."

Allen doesn't look convinced.

Lavi's smile droops. He ruffles Allen's hair.

"I'm seriously fine. Really."

Allen's face is innocent, disappointed.

As if he knows that his friend is hiding something.

"Okay."

Allen smiles faintly.

…

_Pulse…_

'…_what…?'_

His arm throbs.

He can't believe this.

Not now.

Shit.

The bandages are coming loose.

Stretching. He can hear their stitches snap.

One by one by one.

He needs to get rid of Allen.

Fast.

'_Wait, _get rid_? That's not right-'_

His Bookman's brain has processed this _way_ too fast for his conscience to handle.

"Sorry, Beansprout, but I really gotta hit the sack. Gramps'll be looking for me after lunch time. So I _really_ gotta sleep now."

He glances back into his room, the wall clock in the corner barely visible in the darkness.

"Twenty more minutes."

Allen's face is a picture of worry.

"But you don't eat?"

He rubs the back of his neck again.

He can feel the blood trickling down his other arm.

Allen needs to go. _Now._

His face is contradictory to his emotions.

"I've already eaten, Al."

This seems to almost satisfy Allen.

_Almost._

"You'll get dinner?"

"Yes."

The blood has reached the tips of his fingers.

"Do you want me to talk to Komui about it?"

He clenches his fist. The sticky liquid is slimy between his fingers.

His blood feels _dirty_.

It drips to the floor.

"Nah, it's okay. Komui can't do anything about it anyway."

He shrugs.

"Why? Komui should be able to do _something_, right?"

It leaks from the bandages like a tap now.

He hides his hand behind the door, clutching the doorknob.

The smell of iron is overwhelming.

Allen seems to pick it up.

His eyes widen.

"Lavi. It smells of _blood_ in there…"

Blood smells like iron.

"There're a horde of rusty pipes in the bathroom, that's all."

Allen raises an eyebrow.

"But so much?"

The blood loss is starting to take its toll on his head.

His vision is blurred, fuzzy.

He's getting dizzy.

Allen needs to go. Before he collapses onto the floor there and then.

"Look, Allen."

Another rub of his neck, running his hand through his hair.

"I don't know, maybe there're more pipes than I know of, or maybe there's a dead bird on the window, heck, maybe Yuu's carrying out some weird samurai ritual concerning the sacrifice of some animal. Either way, Komui won't be able to help regarding the previous question, alright? He's signed papers declaring _no_ interference with Bookman matters, which includes this, unless it affects my duties as an exorcist."

Allen's eyes fall, his face crestfallen.

Like a beaten dog.

Even in his dizzying state, the eighteen year-old feels guilty for his harsh words.

"I just… need to sleep. Aite?"

He reaches up, ruffling Allen's hair.

Allen looks at him with puppy-dog eyes.

He smiles.

He feels his gaze wavering, unsteady.

The blood.

The dizziness is overpowering.

Allen frowns.

"Lavi. You're pale."

He stifles a groan of frustration.

When is this boy going to _leave_?

"It's just the light, Allen."

Allen shakes his head.

"You're really _really_ pale. As white as a sheet."

His vision is failing already.

He closes his eyes and leans on the doorframe, a hand going up to massage his temples.

"Just a headache, Allen."

His hand falls.

A hand touches to his forehead. He jerks away at the sudden heat, his eyes snapping open.

Allen's eyes are wild.

"You're freezing cold, Lavi! What's going on?"

"It's nothing."

His head is spinning. He can't make anything out of the shapes before him anymore.

Too much blood.

Lost.

"Lavi? Lavi!"

He's falling, he can't feel a thing.

Just the smell of iron and the murmur of voices as the world fades to black.

Voices echo around him.

"_Kanda! KANDA! HEY! Someone help!"_

Hands are holding him up.

"_What're you yelling about out here you stupid beansprout?!"_

His eyes roll back into his head.

His form goes limp.

"_Holy fuck! What the hell's going on?!"_

"_No time to explain! Get help!"_

Footsteps thunder away.

_Footsteps._

_A shriek._

_The sadistic laughter of a murderer._

"Mother…"

"_Run!"_

"Father…"

"Lavi? LAVI?! Oi, are you okay?! Kanda's gone to get help! Don't-"

The rest of the words become gibberish.

His system shuts down.


	3. Quiescent

**Quiescent**

Disclaimer: I don't own.

* * *

_**Darkness.**_

He can't _move_.  
He can't _breathe_.  
He can't _see_.  
He can't _hear_.

He can only _feel._

Feel the needles puncturing his skin, poking into his veins.

And he _detests_ it.

The numb is _unnerving._

He, who is so used to being useful, mobile, strong, _invincible_.

The one always_ to the rescue.  
Being_ rescued.

Rendered useless, helpless, inert, _vulnerable_.

Two extremes.

He tries again, for the countless useless time.

His limbs do not budge.

He struggles to see.  
His eyes burn when he feels the air rush on them as he opens them.

And he still _can't_ see.

He's distraught.

He feels others' hands on him.

'_Don't touch me!_'

But they can't hear him.  
His throat is stuck.  
He can't speak.

_Why isn't the damned flower working?_

He isn't healing like he normally would.  
His senses are not returning like they should.

He's pathetic.

His soul distorts, _mutates_.

He's going insane.

He's immobile.  
He can't do anything.

But he needs to find that person.  
He can't stop now.

He can't _die_.

He won't become a vegetable.

More hands grasp him, pulling his limbs this way and that.

He doesn't know which is which anymore.

He can't see.

Pain explodes in his mind, a numbing headache.

'_Stop touching me!'_

Invisible hands continue to poke and prod him.

_So pitiful_.

He's confused.

The voice laughs, snickers.  
It plays with his mind, the hand that grasps him, prevents his movement.

Mocking his immobility.

It whispers in his ears.

_You can't move._

His mind screams in protest.

Invisible fingers, delicate, elegant.  
They trace his lips, push a strand of hair away from his face.

He can't see.  
But he can feel.

_You're afraid._

_**No. NO!**_

_You. Can't. Move._

It leers, and he screams.

How is it all he can hear in this dark endless void, where he lies motionless, senseless, useless, is that leering voice.  
Mocking him.

Toying with him?

_How is this happening_?

_You're so cute._

_**Stop it.**_

_So adorable._

_**STOP IT.**_

_And now I'll make you mine._

_**NO!**_

He does not know why he refuses.  
But the voice.

It's _dangerous_.

Finally the world collapses from inside, and he screams for the last time, choking to breathe.

He has lost.

Invisible lips press down on his own.

* * *

A/N: Heyy guys. Sorry this was really late. I couldn't write any angst properly for a while. this is a poor excuse too. I hope it didn't turn out too bad, in all of it's unedited, quick-written glory. Do tolerate my sloppy standards. ._.  
I lost track of it prertty much half-way. I hope it isn't too bad.

Review if you can, please? :D


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